The Longest Day
by Renee6061
Summary: It's little Clark's first day of kindergarten, and his parents are nervous wrecks.
1. Default Chapter

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.

Author's note: I was just wondering what Clark's first day of school must have been like for his parents (at home all day wondering if Clark was going to pull the jungle gym out of the ground in front of the whole school, or something like that), so I decided to try to write about it and see what I came up with.

I should warn you ahead of time, there's no real plot to this story. (Or as it says in Jonathan's favorite novel, "Persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.") It's just a series of short scenes, little Clark flashbacks, etc.

The Longest Day

7:57

Five-year-old Clark clung to Jonathan's hand, staring around him with wide eyes. He had never seen this many kids in one room before—kids chasing each other around, chattering noisily in groups, snatching toys from each other, a couple of the more daring ones throwing them. Clark shrank closer to his father.

Jonathan looked down at Clark and tousled the child's hair with his free hand. "It's all right, son. You'll get used to it. You'll make friends with these kids in no time. Just wait and see."

Though he usually took Jonathan's words as gospel, this time Clark only huddled so close to his father's leg that he appeared to be on the verge of climbing into his pocket. Jonathan sighed and looked over at Martha. He could have used her help, but she was talking to the teacher a few feet away.

"He hasn't been around other kids much. And he—he's rather—special in some ways. I mean—" She was searching for words. "Kind of—um—mature for his age."

The pleasant-looking middle-aged woman smiled patiently and glanced at Clark, who ducked his head shyly. "I understand, Mrs. Kent, but I'm sure Clark will be just fine." Both Jonathan and Martha could imagine what she was thinking. _Yeah, I know, another 'special' one. Like I haven't heard that one fifty thousand times. Parents!_

_If you only knew_, Jonathan responded mentally, looking away just in case his thoughts were showing on his face. His eyes fell on little Lana Lang in a corner, peeking at Clark over the top of her picture book. Jonathan's lips twitched. _Even at this age_, he thought.

He was about to stoop down and point her out to Clark; a familiar face might do him good right now. Then he thought better of it. The first time Clark had seen Lana, he'd walked straight into a tree, and gone around in a daze for the rest of the day. Subsequent meetings hadn't gone much better. No point in making the little boy more nervous than he already was.

Pete was probably here somewhere anyway. Jonathan looked around—no, he didn't see Pete yet. But Clark's best friend would arrive any minute; he'd be sure to make Clark feel more at home. _Not too much at home, I hope_, he reflected with a slight grin, remembering some of the mischief the two of them had gotten into.

Martha came back to them, placing her hand on Clark's head. He looked up at her with worried eyes.

"She's very nice, Clark. I think you'll like her."

Clark simply looked at his mother doubtfully. Then his head jerked around as the teacher clapped her hands and started to round up her charges.

All right, it was time. Jonathan had rehearsed this moment in his mind half-a-dozen times on the way here. _Pat on the shoulder, quick goodbye, and out._ He took a deep breath and squatted down in front of his little son, all ready with a few comforting words. _Pat on the shoulder, quick . . . uh-oh._

Clark's eyes had flooded with tears and his lip was trembling. Jonathan winced as if he'd been hit in the stomach.

Abandoning his carefully thought-out routine, he pulled Clark close, hugging him hard. "It'll be okay, son," he whispered. "Don't worry. You're gonna have fun, I promise." He pulled back and gave Clark his most encouraging smile. The little boy was blinking desperately.

"You won't forget to come get me?" he asked anxiously.

Martha knelt down next to her husband. "Never," she declared, smiling into Clark's eyes. "Who would set the table for dinner?"

Clark started to smile back. "Yeah."

"And who would help me taste a pie to make sure it's all right? Or . . ." she leaned close and murmured in his ear, "help Daddy muck out the stalls?"

"Ewww!" Clark made a revolted face at the mention of his least favorite job in the world. But a giggle escaped him.

"That's right." Jonathan grinned and tickled him a little, eliciting more giggles. "You know I can't get that done without you, buddy."

"_Daddy _. . ."

"See?" Martha teased. "School's gonna be much more fun. I have a feeling you won't want to come home at all."

"Yes I will, Mommy," Clark protested. He impulsively threw his arms around her neck and squeezed. Jonathan caught sight of the expression on his wife's face as she squeezed him back. _Uh-oh_, he thought for the second time in five minutes, realizing that Clark wasn't the one he needed to worry about now.

"Okay, sweetheart," he whispered, touching her arm to steady her. "I think she wants us out of here." He nodded in the direction of the teacher, who was throwing pointed looks at the few parents left in the room. Martha glanced up and nodded as well. She closed her eyes tightly, holding on to her little boy for one more second, and then let go and quickly got up.

"All right, baby," she said softly, brushing his hair back. "Go have fun, okay?"

"Okay." The battle of the tears had been won now. As the teacher came near and held out her hand to lead him to a seat, Clark obediently slipped his hand into hers. Jonathan gave him a gentle tap on the back and watched proudly as he walked away, though his own eyes were getting misty. His breath caught as Clark threw one more glance at them over his shoulder, his face now beaming with confidence.

"Let's go," he muttered to Martha, who was standing there as if in a trance. When she didn't move, he put a hand on her back and quickly steered her to the door. As she stepped through the doorway, she discreetly tried to brush her own tears away with the back of her hand.

Jonathan didn't blame her. He too had just left his heart sitting on a miniature chair in a kindergarten classroom.

TBC . . .


	2. Chapter 2

8:19

"Oh, man," Martha whispered, stuffing her soaked Kleenex back in her purse and searching for a fresh one. "I knew it would be hard, but I didn't think it would be _that_ hard."

"I wanted to home-school him," Jonathan pointed out. Even as he rubbed her back comfortingly with one hand, he couldn't resist the urge for a little _I told you so_.

"Oh, right." Martha rolled her eyes. "Remind me which one of us made decent grades in English? Between us, the poor kid would grow up hardly knowing how to spell _cat_."

"Hey, I still remember how to diagram a sentence!" Jonathan paused. "I think."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, he'd make up for it with fantastic math skills." He lifted his eyebrows and flashed the smile that usually melted her.

But she clearly wasn't impressed by his flattery, much less his flirting. "Honey, I'm sure that works great for some kids, but it's not what Clark needs. He hardly ever sees anyone but us and Pete. That was all right for a while, but it's not enough anymore. He'll have to get out there and face the world someday—the longer he waits, the harder it's gonna be."

She stopped and studied his face. He must have been looking unconvinced, because her voice sharpened with exasperation. "Jonathan, we've been through this a hundred times. You agreed with me, remember?'

"I know, Martha." It was true, he had. But he'd put up a good fight before finally giving in. And even now, part of him was still arguing that he shouldn't have given in. There was a knot in his stomach that had nothing to do with mushy feelings about his little boy's first day of school.

He bit his lip and looked out the window. The question that had been nagging him all morning finally forced its way out.

"Do you think we should have talked to him again about . . . ?" His voice trailed off. He felt her hand slide over his on the seat and grip it tightly.

"No," she said, after a moment. "No, I think we handled it all right. He was nervous enough as it was. And I think we made it pretty clear the other night. . . ." It was her turn to break off in mid-sentence. He heard her draw a long, shaky breath.

Jonathan turned back to her quickly, slipping an arm across her shoulders. "Honey, he'll be fine," he whispered soothingly, trying to persuade himself as much as her. "You saw how he looked when we left. He was looking just as excited as all the other kids." He smiled again. "If that conversation is gonna scar him for life, at least it hasn't started yet."

Martha smiled back this time, dabbing the last remains of the tears from her face. "I know, sweetheart. You're right."

"I'm always right." He leaned over and kissed her cheek before pulling his arm back to get the keys out of his pocket.

"Except when _I'm_ right," Martha replied meaningfully, raising an eyebrow.

"Right." He winked at her and started the truck. Beside him he heard the little snort she always gave when he was trying to be funny and not succeeding. Well, it was a big improvement over crying, at any rate.

But as he pulled out of the parking lot, Jonathan was well aware that neither of them was really feeling any better about this whole thing. _It's gonna be a long day_, he thought, already feeling a little weary.

TBC . . .


	3. Chapter 3

10:32

Jonathan drew a sleeve across his forehead to wipe away the sweat as he replaced the shovel in the toolshed. He'd just finished the job Clark loathed so much. _Won't he be pleased to find out I_ can _get it done without him_, he thought in wry amusement.

He leaned against the wall with a long sigh, rubbing his hands on his jeans. It was quiet out here today—so quiet he could hardly stand it. Every so often he found himself looking behind him with a start, thinking that Clark hadn't said anything in too long, wondering if he was up to some mischief. This was going to take some getting used to.

For the hundred and fifty-seventh time that morning, he wondered how Clark was doing . . . what time he would be having recess . . . if he would get overexcited by the presence of so many running, screaming kids.

If the phone was going to ring with a teacher's shocked, horrified voice on the other end of the line.

No, now, that was enough. He had to stop thinking about that. What Martha had said was true—their conversation with Clark the other night had put the fear of God in him. Jonathan was certain of that, remembering the expression on his son's face. But the mental image made him close his eyes in pain.

They'd decided to get it over with a few nights before school started, so that Clark would have time to get used to the idea, and it wouldn't add too much to his first-day-of-school jitters.

"Clark, we need to have a little talk," Jonathan said after dinner on Friday night. "Could you come in here with us, please?"

Clark hastily rummaged through his conscience. Satisfied that it was clear, he followed his parents willingly into the living room. Jonathan sat down on the couch and lifted Clark onto his lap as Martha settled in beside them.

"Think you're ready for school next week, son?"

"Yeah!" Clark nodded eagerly, bouncing a little in his father's lap. "Mommy even said I could take my new truck, long as I don't lose it."

"That's good." Jonathan's voice wasn't quite as hearty as usual. "There's just one thing we need to talk about before you go." He turned the little boy slightly on his lap so that Clark was looking right into his face, and spoke slowly and distinctly. "It's about showing your strength and your speed."

Clark instantly looked bored. They had had this conversation so many times now that he could have recited it in his sleep. "I won't, Daddy," he said mechanically. "Now can I . . . ?"

"Just a minute," Jonathan said quietly. "We're not done."

With a small sigh, Clark settled down and folded his hands. Martha could tell what was in his mind. Maybe if he sat very still and listened very hard, this new and longer version of the lecture wouldn't last long. She swallowed a lump in her throat as she impulsively reached out to give his arm a little squeeze.

"Clark, you've always been very good about not showing off," Jonathan said, his eyes intent on the child's. "But it's gonna get much harder now. You'll be at school for hours every day, and there'll be a lot of people around. You'll be playing with the kids, and there will be times when you want to do something extra to win a game, or times when you'll just get excited and forget."

He took Clark's face in his hands. "Clark, you have to make very sure that doesn't happen."

Clark still wasn't getting this. He'd known ever since he could remember that he wasn't supposed to run really fast or lift heavy things in front of anybody but his parents. What was the big deal now?

"I know, Daddy," he said patiently. "I won't forget. I promise."

Jonathan's eyes never left his face. "We really need you to keep that promise, Clark." He hesitated for a minute, groping for words, as he moved his hands to Clark's shoulders and started to massage them gently. How could he say it? "Your mom and I have never told you this before, son, but if—if someone sees what you can do—well, we could all get in a lot of trouble."

That got Clark's attention. His blue eyes grew big with surprise and a hint of fear. "What kind of trouble?" he quavered.

Jonathan opened his mouth to answer, but at the look on his son's face, his voice died in his throat. _I can't do this._ He looked at Martha helplessly. His wife understood and quickly took over, moving closer and gathering Clark's hands into hers.

"Honey, what Daddy means is that—there are people who would think that Mommy and Daddy aren't the right people to raise you. They would want to—" she swallowed again. She was floundering too. "To—to take you to live somewhere else."

Clark's eyes were like saucers now. Jonathan reflexively tightened his grip on the child.

"Why?" The little voice was almost a whisper.

"Baby," Martha said softly, placing a hand on his cheek, "we've told you before, you're a very special little boy. There aren't many people who can do the things you can, Clark. Some people would—well, they would think that—that you should be with people who are smarter than us—who could help you—well—develop your abilities better." Her glance at Jonathan mirrored his own frustration. _How do you explain exploitation to a five-year-old?_

Clark's whole face was contorting now in his efforts to keep back his tears. "I don't want to be special," he whimpered. "I want to stay with you and Daddy."

"You're going to," Jonathan put in firmly. He drew Clark's head against his chest and held it there with a strong but gentle hand. "Clark, don't be afraid. We won't let anyone take you away. It's just—you just need to know why you can't show people what you can do. It's just too dangerous, son."

Martha leaned against her husband's arm as if exhausted by her effort, patting Clark's back. "Honey, do you understand?"

Clark simply nodded against his father's chest, clearly not trusting himself to speak.

"All right. We don't have to talk about it anymore now." Her voice held a note of relief.

Ordinarily, that would have been Clark's cue to jump down and scamper off to play. This time, he only turned his face a little to burrow further into Jonathan's shirt. His father held him tightly and kissed the top of his head, then put one arm around Martha and held her close as she continued to stroke Clark's back. The family sat there in silence for quite some time.

Jonathan stood very still in the toolshed, shaken by the memory.

Clark had eventually gotten back to his old self, helped greatly by a big bowl of his favorite ice cream from his mother, and a long and elaborate game of trucks with his father that had taken up the whole living room floor and lasted well past the child's bedtime. By the time they'd finally tucked him in, he'd been in a state of blissful exhaustion, asleep almost before his mother had turned out the light.

But neither Jonathan nor Martha had gotten much sleep that night.

"We had to do it, Jonathan," she'd whispered to him as he had held her in the darkness. "We always knew we would have to one day. At least now we know we can trust him to be careful."

"I know, sweetheart."

So why did he keep feeling like they'd committed some kind of a crime?

TBC . . .


	4. Chapter 4

11:24

Martha was sitting at the kitchen table when Jonathan came in to get a drink of water. A bowl of green beans ready to be snapped was near her on the table, but she sat with her chin propped on her hands, just staring in front of her.

Jonathan looked at her in surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her sitting so still, especially in the middle of the morning.

"Martha? Is something wrong?" He looked around to see what she was gazing at so steadily. His eyes fell on the clock on the wall.

"Sweetheart, you need to fix that clock," she said, nodding towards it. "I think it's running slow."

Jonathan checked it by his watch. "Looks about right to me."

"Are you sure?"

Jonathan looked at her more closely, then turned away to hide a small smile. "I can move it forward half an hour if you want," he said casually as he went to the refrigerator. "But it won't do you much good unless the school does the same."

Martha got up so abruptly she almost tipped her chair over. "That's not what I was thinking about at all," she said with dignity, straightening the chair with mathematical precision. "I just thought the clock seemed slow."

"Okay." Jonathan shrugged and opened the refrigerator door. As he poured himself a drink and downed it, she took her beans to the sink and began to snap them with as much energy as if a hungry mob had just started clamoring at the door.

He put the water pitcher back and started back outside, pausing just long enough to touch his lips to her cheek as he passed her.

"Jonathan?" she said suddenly, as he was turning away.

"Yeah, honey?"

She stopped snapping for a minute and looked at him with a faintly bewildered expression. "Are you sure your watch is right?"

He didn't attempt to hide his grin this time. "Tell you what. As soon as I'm done fixing the tractor, I'll go call Greenwich and make sure."

"Oh, shut up," Martha retorted, tossing a bean at him, which he caught in midair. "You're not funny."

"Sorry." He was still grinning a bit as he opened the door and went out, chewing on the bean. At least he wasn't the only one who felt like this morning was lasting about forty-seven years.

_I guess misery really does love company_, he reflected as he walked across the yard, his smile starting to fade as the quiet settled around him again.

TBC . . .


	5. Chapter 5

12:13

Martha wasn't quite sure what brought her attention to it; she usually passed it a dozen times a day without a glance. But now, carrying a basket of laundry toward the stairs, she found herself stopping and staring at the spot on the wall that was a slightly different color from the rest. It was nearly two years ago now that Jonathan had had to fix it, just after . . .

She set her basket down and moved to the wall, stooping to run her fingers lightly over the discolored place as the memory came rushing back.

"Mommy?"

She'd looked away from the stove to see Clark in the doorway, his tear-stained little face unnaturally solemn. He had his hands clasped behind him like a child being forced to recite a poem at a family reunion.

Instantly Martha's heart began to melt, but she forced herself to look as stern as she could as she reached to turn the stove off. "Clark," she said reprovingly, turning to face him. "I thought I told you to stay in your room."

"I know, Mommy," the little boy said softly. "I just . . ."

"Just what?"

"I wanted to say sorry," he almost whispered.

Martha's last attempt to stay upset with him went out the window. She quickly squatted down and held out her arms. Almost before the words "Come here" were out of her mouth, he had rushed across the room and was nestling into them.

"All right, baby," she said softly, stroking his hair. "It's okay."

Then she took his shoulders and held him away from her for a moment, looking seriously into his eyes. "As long as you learned something, Clark."

"Uh-huh." He nodded meekly.

"What did you learn?"

"Not to kick and make big holes in the wall."

Martha had to purse her lips to keep from smiling. How many little boys in the world had to learn that lesson? "Yes, and what else?" she asked.

"Um . . ." Clark looked confused.

"Not to throw a fit when we won't give you something you want," Martha supplied. "Right?"

Clark nodded again, but a little more slowly. Clearly, he had thought that was a pretty good method of making his views known, and he was loath to give it up.

Martha smoothed the rumpled hair back from his forehead. "Honey, Mommy and Daddy know what's best for you," she told him. "You have to trust us when we say you can't have something, and not complain about it. And you have to remember that people in this family don't yell and scream when they don't get something they want. We keep our tempers and talk calmly." She hesitated. "Especially you, Clark."

The little boy looked puzzled. "Why?"

Martha gave a small sigh. "Well . . . because you're a very strong boy. When people are as strong as you are, Clark, they have to remember to be very gentle. Otherwise—someone could end up getting hurt."

Clark looked shocked and a little alarmed. "Mommy, I wouldn't hurt anybody," he protested.

Looking into that angelic face, Martha believed it. "I know, honey." She hugged him close again. "Not on purpose. You just need to learn to stay calm so you won't ever do it accidentally. Okay?"

She felt his head move against her shoulder, and gave him one more squeeze. "Okay. Now go tell Daddy you're sorry, and see if you can help him fix that hole."

As he moved away, she gave him a little swat on the bottom, and he giggled and took off running. Thank goodness for the resilience of three-year-olds.

Coming gradually out of her reverie, Martha became aware that her view of the wall had gone suddenly blurry. She drew a hand across her eyes as she got to her feet, the laundry basket forgotten, and hurried out to the yard.

TBC . . .


	6. Chaper 6

12:18

"Stupid piece of junk," Jonathan muttered, backing out from under the tractor, which was proving every bit as stubborn as he was.

He had to smile to himself, though, as he realized what he'd just said. There was a time not so long ago when his words would have been a little, well, stronger. But the last couple of years had cured him of that. Even now that there were no little ears around to catch any slips—and no big mouth to carry them back to Mommy—he was still censoring himself.

_Just as well_, he thought as he stood up and started to dust himself off. _It was a bad habit, anyway_.

"Jonathan?" His wife's voice came from behind him, making him jump.

"Oh, man, honey, you scared me to death!" He turned. "Is it time for lunch?"

Martha was standing there, arms wrapped around herself as if she were freezing, although the September day was a mild one. She didn't say anything, just looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher. Was that fear in her eyes?

"Martha?" he asked, suddenly anxious. "Are you all right?" Immediately his mind jumped to the worst possible scenario. _The school just called. . . ._

"Jonathan . . ." she managed, sounding oddly like a little girl afraid of the dark. "Didwe do the right thing?"

Jonathan stared at her, caught off guard. "What?"

"I just started thinking . . ." she said softly. "He—he's still so little. Did I expect too much of him? What if he can't—?" Her voice was breaking.

"Oh, Martha," Jonathan whispered. He sat on the tractor seat and took her hand to pull her down onto his lap. She laid her face against his shoulder and he held her close, rocking her a little, as he did with Clark when the boy had a nightmare.

"Sweetheart," he said quietly. "We can't start second-guessing ourselves. Not now. We made the decision, and . . . it's done."

He heard her sniffle as she reached up to brush at her cheek. "But what if it's the wrong decision?"

Jonathan shook his head and sighed. "There's no way we can know ahead of time what decisions are right for Clark," he reminded her. "We just have to look at all the facts and then do what seems best."

"It's just so hard sometimes . . ." she whispered.

"I know."

They were both quiet for a little while as he held her against him. There was nothing much to say. They'd already said all of it to each other, over and over again, these past three years.

How do you raise a child who's different from anyone else on earth? Where do you go for advice when there's no one you can trust? How do you know you're making the right decisions when no one has ever faced this before?

There weren't any answers. There never had been. There were only the two of them trying to do what was right for their miracle child, leaning on each other for the support they so desperately needed, praying they wouldn't make a mistake that could wreck everything for him.

Finally, Jonathan spoke. "Martha, Clark is a smart little guy. And a good kid. He knows what could happen. We've just got to trust him to look after himself." He found her words of the morning coming back to him. "He had to start sometime."

It was her turn to sigh. He hugged her tighter.

"Do you suppose all parents go through this on the first day of school?" she asked tiredly.

"Probably." He didn't think he sounded very convincing. Apparently she didn't either, as she raised her head to give him a dubious look.

"Well," he amended, "all the parents whose kid can pick up the school bus."

She made a sound that sounded like a half-laugh, half-choke, as she dropped her head on his chest. He kissed her bright hair, then rested his cheek on it, as he continued to rock her gently.

TBC . . .


	7. Chapter 7

1:40

The phone rang.

Martha froze where she stood at the ironing board, her stomach rising into her throat—again. After a day of this, she was starting to wonder if either she or Jonathan would ever again be able to hear the phone ring without panicking. They were both so afraid of what it might mean.

The phone rang again.

She'd have to answer it. Jonathan was still outside. And even if he hadn't been, she'd banned him from the phone for the rest of the afternoon, after he'd lost his temper and told some poor telemarketer exactly where he could put his aluminum siding.

Martha clicked off the iron, set it down, and moved slowly toward the phone, as if afraid it might bite her.

It rang again.

She forced herself to quicken her pace, snatching it up before the answering machine could come on. But she had to swallow before she could make her voice work.

"H-hello?"

She stood motionless for a few seconds, hardly even breathing, as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. Then her eyes narrowed.

"Listen," she said in a lethally quiet voice. "Would you like to know what you can do with your storm windows . . . ?"

TBC . . .


	8. Chapter 8

2:08

"Hey, sweetheart," Jonathan called as he stuck his head inside the door. "Is it time to go pick up Clark yet?"

Martha looked up from the sink and shook her head. "We don't have to leave for another twenty minutes or so." She smiled at his frustrated look. "Honey, we don't want him to get tagged as the kid whose parents show up half an hour before school gets out. He'd be the laughingstock of the kindergarten."

Jonathan smiled a little too. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He ducked back out.

2:14

"Now is it time?"

"_Jonathan—_"

"Right. Sorry."

2:26

Jonathan was sitting at the kitchen table, slowly drinking a mid-afternoon cup of coffee. Martha continued to peel potatoes at the sink. Neither of them had spoken for a while. Jonathan kept trying to think of something to say, but somehow everything that came to mind had to do with Clark, and that thought always led him back to the subject of whether it would be reasonable to leave yet. He looked at the paring knife in his wife's hand and decided not to bring that up again until she did.

Martha glanced over her shoulder at the clock. Two twenty-six—same as it had been the last time she looked. Still a little early. She turned back to the sink. _Just be patient_, she told herself firmly._ You don't want to embarrass Clark on his first day of school._

She peeled another strip from the potato in her hand and then turned her head to see the clock again. Two twenty-seven.

_Oh, what the heck. Close enough. _

She set knife and potato on the cutting board and turned away, forgetting to wipe her hands as she usually did. "I guess it's time to go get—"

Jonathan was out of his chair and grabbing his jacket before she could finish her sentence. They couldn't have gotten out the door any faster if the house had been on fire.

TBC . . .


	9. Chapter 9

2:54

Jonathan switched off the ignition and turned to Martha.

"We made it," he said softly.

His wife gave him an expressive look. "Barely," she returned, deliberately misinterpreting his words. "If you ever drive like that again, Jonathan Kent . . ."

He only smiled innocently. "Oh, like you weren't just as anxious to get here as I was." He glanced out the driver's side window at the horde of parents collecting on the sidewalk in front of the school. "Not to mention the rest of Smallville. Want to go mingle?" He reached for his door handle, but Martha made no move to get out on her side.

"In a minute." She was leaning back in her seat, staring at the school building in front of them with an air of surprise, as if she couldn't quite believe it was still in one piece. Jonathan followed her gaze, understanding.

"I guess Clark made it, too." His eyes and his voice were proud and wistful at the same time.

Martha's own eyes watered. "The first milestone," she said, forcing an attempt at lightness. "Before you know it, it'll be his first day of junior high. . ."

"First day of high school," Jonathan picked up her thought. "First kiss . . ."

With a little groan, Martha flopped forward in her seat, burying her face in the dashboard. "Stop," she pleaded, her voice muffled. "You'll have him married and gone before he's old enough to cross the street."

Jonathan chuckled. "Not yet," he answered. "He's still ours." There was a reassuring note in his voice, though the wistfulness wasn't quite gone. She felt her hand gathered in his warm clasp.

"He'll always be ours, Martha. No matter how far he goes."

They were both silent for a couple of minutes, Martha still resting her head against the dashboard, turning her face away while she tried to control the tears that wanted to fall, but keeping tight hold of his hand.

Then Jonathan spoke abruptly, in a changed tone. "Martha, look. Here they come."

She sat up quickly, looking through his window. A stream of kids was beginning to pour through the school doors toward the sidewalk, with a teacher here and there attempting vainly to keep them in some kind of order.

Martha sucked in her breath; her fingers fumbled as she tried to open the door. But before Jonathan could reach across and help her, she was out of the truck and on the lawn, standing motionless while her eyes searched the scene eagerly.

Just as Jonathan caught up with her, Martha's whole face lit up and she called out, "Clark!"

In the crowd near the door, a little face jerked around at the sound of her voice. His excited voice carried across the lawn. "Mommy! Daddy!"

A small, dark-haired hurricane came rushing at them. Before Martha even had time to stoop down to him, Clark banged into her legs, nearly sending her flying. Jonathan caught hold of her just in time, glancing worriedly around to make sure no one else had noticed the display of strength.

By the time he turned his attention back to his family, Martha was kneeling on the ground with Clark in her arms. "Baby . . . " she murmured. Despite her best efforts, the tears were finally spilling over. "I missed you so much!"

"I missed you too, Mommy!" Clark was clinging to her tightly—so tightly that Jonathan, squatting beside them, realized he'd better intervene. In the state she was in, his wife probably wouldn't notice if her neck were about to snap.

"Hey, buddy!" He put a hand on Clark's arm, and the little boy turned to grin up at him, loosening his grip just enough to be pried free. Jonathan lifted him up and gave him a bear hug of his own. "Did you have a good day?"

"Uh-huh! I made you something!" Clark started to twist in his father's arms, struggling to reach his backpack.

"Here, Clark, let Mommy get that." Martha came to the rescue, gently pulling his impatient little fingers out of the way with one hand while she tugged at the zipper with the other.

Jonathan took the opportunity to look over at Clark's teacher, who with the help of an aide was shepherding the rest of her charges to the curb. After a minute or two, the woman happened to look up, caught his eye, and offered a tiny wave and a weary but sincere smile. Jonathan let out his breath in a relieved sigh, and waved back.

"Look, Daddy!" Clark's impatient tug on his shirt brought Jonathan's gaze back to his son. "Look what I made for you and Mommy."

Martha was already ooh-ing and ah-ing over the crumpled drawing of—a bunch of balloons eating hot dogs, apparently. The kids must have learned to draw something new, because years of practice deciphering Clark's scribbles weren't helping Jonathan figure out this one. But at least they had taught him an all-purpose response. "It's beautiful, son," he answered fondly, taking the picture in his free hand as carefully as if it weren't already a mass of wrinkles.

"Pete made one too," Clark confided as his father began to carry him towards the truck, his mother walking alongside with a hand on Clark's back. "And tomorrow we're gonna make some more, only with finger paints 'stead of crayons, and we're gonna . . ."

He chattered on, too wrapped up in his narrative to notice that his parents had stopped walking. Their eyes met over his head, the thought that had somehow foolishly slipped their minds visible in both their faces.

_We have to do this again tomorrow?_

The End


End file.
